


The Joxter's Son.

by themymbIe



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, op is quietly projecting onto snufkin, snufkin has anxiety dont even look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:04:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themymbIe/pseuds/themymbIe
Summary: Snufkin meets a stranger during his mid-winter travels, and their first interaction goes all but expected.





	The Joxter's Son.

**Author's Note:**

> english isnt my native language but god. god do i try. i had a native english speaker proofread this for me, so it should be okay!! also i am so, so, so sorry that its 4k words.

“If you’re waiting for food, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Snufkin says to an otherwise seemingly empty forest. “I’ve eaten all the stew I had, and I won’t be making more for the rest of the night.” In the moonlit night, he barely notices the subtle movements in the woods surrounding him; most of the noises he hears are animals. 

But when his tired brown eyes land on smokey blue ones hiding behind a bush, he sighs to himself.

“Do you _need_ something?” he asks, almost annoyed. 

He’s a traveler – a widely-known one, at that – and it’s common for creatures of the forest to follow him to his camp. But on this cold mid-winter night, he doesn’t want to be bothered. All he wants to do is set up camp, eat his stew in perfect silence and, perhaps, if the mood struck him, play his harmonica. 

The lurking cat-like eyes blink slowly behind a bush, and a hushed voice follows soon after. “I needn’t any food, boy.” it says, with a hitched purr in its tone. “I’m just surprised to see another Mumrik this far south.” 

“It happens.” Snufkin replies, stoking his campfire from his comfortable seat on a log. “Mumriken are travelers, after all.” 

“Well,” the voice responds, “I haven’t seen one in ages.”

The vagabond huffs to himself, already agitated by being followed in the first place. “If you’re going to lurk, you may as well sit by the fire and warm up. Then be on your way, I’m very busy.” 

“Busy, you say?” 

Slowly, the other supposed mumrik emerges from the brush and makes his way over to another log, opposite Snufkin. He’s only slightly taller with a darker nose, and… is that fur? A tail? It swishes playfully with every step the man takes. “You don’t seem busy, my dear boy. If anything, maybe a little bored.” 

“I’m not bored, just resting in the calmness of the forest. It’s a nice night.” he simply answers.

Finally, the other mumrik seats himself across from Snufkin and simply stares with cat-like eyes. 

Snufkin tries to pay him no mind – though there’s something about him that strikes him as… remarkable. Remarkable? No… Odd? He reminds him of someone else, but the little mumrik can't put his finger on who. After noticing he’s staring back at the stranger, Snufkin pulls the brim of his hat lower to avoid eye contact. 

“Did my staring make you uncomfortable, little one?” the man asks rather suddenly, blinking slowly. Snufkin shakes his head but doesn’t reply. The older mumrik holds out a paw to the fire to warm himself. “Say, I’ve seen you wander off in these woods before. Last winder, I believe.”

Snufkin nods, “I go south every winter.” 

“I see. Any particular reason why?”

He blinks. “Why?” No one’s ever asked him before, save for Moomintroll. “Because it’s warmer, I guess.” 

The man shivers and moves his paws back to his lap soon after, “Warmer, you say? I’m as cold as ice. I prefer a nice, warm cabin in the winter. Sleeping soundly on a comfortable mattress. Sleeping the cold months away.” 

_Sounds rather lazy_ , Snufkin thinks, but he doesn’t say a word in return. “If you prefer sleeping the winter away, why were you following me?” he finds himself saying instead.

A strange cat-like quality follows the stranger’s voice when he responds, “It’s just that – well, you see – I followed you because you reminded me of someone from my younger days.” 

“...Oh?” Now the young mumrik is intrigued. 

“Yes!“ he exclaims, “It’s the roundness in your face, and that hair of yours, though yours is far shorter and messier than hers had ever been. You’ve got that same… autumnal reddish-brown in your hair.” 

Snufkin doesn’t dare interrupt the stranger’s reminiscence; he’s annoyed, but refuses to be any ruder than he’d already been. Instead, he simply watches the stranger’s tail, which is swishing back and forth again.

“Well, I doubt you would know of her; she’s quite a busy woman, after all. Lots of children to care for, apparently.” he says. “Always on the move with her family. Even _I_ haven’t been able to track her down successfully.” 

Snufkin thinks for a moment and finds himself asking with slight intrigue, “Her name wouldn’t happen to be _The Mymble_ , would it?” 

Fire flickers in the man’s eyes now; so he did know her. A smirk plays at his lips for a moment and he replies, “The very same.” He sighs to himself, holds a paw over his heart and mumbles, “Ah, my dearest Mymble. What a remarkable woman, yes?”

The younger mumrik shrugs, “I suppose. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve heard stories about her… and her _many_ children.”

“Quite exciting,” the man continues, “to happen to run into someone who knows my Mymble.”

“ _Your_ Mymble?”

“She was – or, I suppose, almost was, more appropriately.” There’s something… vaguely sad in the other’s eyes now. Almost as if he had wished for something more back then. “We had some rather swell times together, though.” he says with a wink. 

Scrunching his nose at the stranger, Snufkin makes it very clear that he doesn’t want to hear all the gritty, adulterating details of their acquaintance. “So, you knew her very well then.” he says, hoping to change the subject. “Is it… well, I suppose it would be inappropriate to ask, so never mind.” 

The man perked up for a moment and said, “Conversation needn’t be inappropriate. Say what’s on your mind, or leave it be. Although, I am curious.” 

Sighing first, Snufkin musters up the courage to ask, “Is it possible… you’re one of the little one’s father?” 

“I highly doubt that.” 

“I see.”

“That Mymble would have told me.”

“…Would she now?” 

Suddenly, there’s a stern look on the other’s face. He pulls his hat – a shamble of the poor thing – down to cover his eyes, just as Snufkin had done the same moments ago. “She would have told me.” he mutters. It comes out sounding as if he’s trying to reassure himself, rather than Snufkin.

The younger mumrik, finding himself at a loss as to what to say next, stokes the fire again and says, “I’m sure you’re right… Silly of me to think that. Although, it isn’t as though she’s kept one man for very long.” He sounds bitter, and he knows it, but frankly he can’t help it in the moment. “Who can say for sure?”

He had been polite all year whenever Mymblemamma had been mentioned by one of the Moomins. The fact of the matter is that she gave him up long ago, and he hadn’t completely… forgiven her? He thinks to himself, is there really anything to forgive though? 

_So what if she didn’t want him? So what if she had abandoned him in a basket and sent him down the river, alone and frightened?_

Snufkin pushes the thought aside and silently chides himself for thinking ill of anyone’s life choices. He truly is a vagabond, through and through, and he doesn’t need _anyone_ looking after him.

“You look absolutely miserable.” says the man, who Snufkin had all but forgotten while lost in his thoughts. “And what did you mean by that earlier statement?”

“She’s a very busy woman, is all.” he quietly replies, messing with a piece of kindling stuck just outside the campfire’s range. When he manages to stick it back into place, he adds, “I don’t know much about the Mymble, but she sounds rather… unconventional.” 

“She was pleasantly unconventional, my dear boy. I wonder if she’s still the same.” 

“Oh, I’m sure.” Snufkin says, albeit a bit too sarcastic for his own taste. “Though, there’s nothing wrong with being unconventional.” he adds, after a moment of uncomfortable silence. The man simply nods back. 

“I wonder if she still resides in Moomin Valley – though I highly doubt it. She always liked to travel… Almost as much as I do.” the man reminisces, his expression somewhat dreamy. “If I could just see her again, oh the fun we would have.”

“And her children?” Snufkin asks out of nowhere.

“Her children?” he muses, tapping his chin in thought. “Why, yes, I think I’d like to meet them, too. It sounds like fun, and that’s what life is about, is it not?”

“Yes, I can see it now. The Mymble, her thirty-odd children, and their newest step-father…” Snufkin pauses. “What was your name?”

The man gives a rather lazy stretch, flops to the ground, and makes himself a comfortable looking seat in the dirt. He lay there silently and cat-like, as he watches the fire flicker in front of him. “My name,” he half-purrs, “why, I’m the Joxter. Professional napper, world-known adventurer – _apparently_ – and, if I do say so myself, I’m not too shabby with a flute.” 

_The Joxter_.

Snufkin thinks to himself again, _why does that sound so familiar… Joxter._ Then it hits him, harsh and brunt like a broom hitting a stray cat on the butt – The Joxter. That was the name of his father, at least according to Moominpappa. “I… I see,” Snufkin says, finding himself stumbling over his words for the first time. 

The Joxter raises a brow at him and asks, “Are you alright, boy? You look as though you’ve heard a nasty rumor about me.” His tail flicks twice, seemingly excited by the idea of a bad rumor being spread about him.

Anxiety washes over Snufkin suddenly, and he’s at a complete loss for words. He opens his mouth for just a second, as if to say something, but his response doesn’t come out. He settles on laying his stick on the ground and fumbles around his pocket, searching for his harmonica. 

“You seem _nervous_ now.” the Joxter adds, flicking his eyes up at the boy. “Which means you must have heard something about me. Something _bad_ , I assume.” 

“Bad?” 

What bad thing could he have heard about the Joxter? _That his mother, The Mymble, hadn’t told him about little Snufkin’s existence? That she thought he wouldn’t have wanted to know about him?_

“No,” he tries to sound reassuring, despite his anxiety, “Nothing bad.” 

“Hmm...” The Joxter purrs, lazily stretching out his paws to warm them by the fire again. 

Where had his damn – _darn_ harmonica gone off to? He just wants to sit in silence and play a calming tune for himself; doesn’t want to be bothered by the fact that he may be meeting his father for the first time in his life.

He’s… meeting his father for the first time in his life. _Calm down, Snufkin_.

“You...” Snufkin tries, but his voice is as quiet as a whisper, “really haven’t met any of her children? And you haven’t any of your own?” 

“None that I know of.” The Joxter responds, eyeing him now. 

“I see.” He feels awkward and his palms are sweating. The young mumrik can feel his father’s cold, blue eyes watching him, even after he made a point of pulling his hat back down in front of his eyes. 

“Have you heard otherwise, boy?” 

Snufkin ignores the question completely and asks, “And I suppose… you haven’t heard anything about a young mumrik by the name of _Snusmumriken_ , then?”

The man’s tail flicks sharply once. “Nothing at all.” he says, but it sounds like a lie to Snufkin. “Have you?”

“I...” he finds himself trailing off, unable to finish the statement. 

_I’m Snusmumriken – No, Snufkin. I’m your son, you see, and I’ve heard so very much about you. He wants to say all of this, but it doesn’t come out. I’ve looked up to you since I was a young boy._

“I’ve heard a rather sad story about a boy who was… supposedly, related to a man by the name of Joxter.” he lies in response. 

The Joxter simply continues staring and flicking his tail at him.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Snufkin abruptly attempts to stand up as he speaks, “I shouldn’t have said that.” If only he could make it to his tent and ignore this whole situation for the rest of winter. But he can’t, because just as he’s up and about, the man speaks once again.

“ _Snusmumriken_ , you say.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Snufkin nods. 

The older mumrik sighs, rubs at his temples and stays silent for a long moment.

“I’m sorry to have brought this up. It’s – it’s just a story, I think.” 

“... _Snusmumriken_.” The Joxter repeats, “I certainly do like the name, I will admit. But to think, that I have a son of my own, and don’t know anything about him at all. It’s perplexing, to say the least.” 

Snufkin sits back down. “I’m sorry.” he mumbles awkwardly. 

“Well,” says the Joxter now, closing his eyes, “it’s just a story, is it not? A rumor? No harm done, boy. No need to apologize so much.”

His cheeks are heating up now. This always happens when he’s anxious – his face turns stark red and he becomes awkward and as sweaty as a sinner in church on Sunday. “But – But what if it wasn’t?” he finds himself sputtering out, “What if it wasn’t a story?” 

“Oh?” Another tail flick, this one much more erratic. “Do you know something about him? Or maybe you know him personally?”

“I...” He’s not quite sure what to say. “Yes, I… know him quite well, actually.”

The Joxter opens one eye, and it unsettles Snufkin even more than he already is by this whole ordeal. “Does he know of me?” he asks, sounding rather tired. There’s another emotion there, but the younger mumrik cant quite place what it is. Genuine curiosity? 

“...Vaguely, I suppose. I mean – He’s heard stories of you.” 

“Then I’m just as much a bastard to him, as he is to me. We both know nothing concrete about each other, so that's that.” 

The swear makes Snufkin squirm in his seat a little; he looks at the ground and starts fumbling with a patch on his raggedy coat. He doesn’t want to speak any more – it’s become apparent that the Joxter doesn’t want to hear about his son. He picks at the patch on his coat until there’s a small hole in it, his heart pounding and thoughts racing. 

He just wants to… disappear – become invisible, perhaps. He could slip off and wouldn’t have to worry about the Joxter; or being called a bastard again, for that matter. He hates being sworn at, but he hates the thought of his own father disliking him even more. His heart feels like it's sinking into his stomach, and he feels nervous and agitated.

Lifting his head with both eyes open now, the Joxter looks him up and down and says, “You seem uncomfortable again. Though, I suppose speaking to a stranger about his estranged family will do that to a person. Relax just a bit, won’t you?”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but there are small tears pricking at Snufkin’s eyes now. “Do you really think… your son is a bastard?” his voice comes out quaking and shy. He knows the Joxter can hear how anxious he is. 

“It’s an expression for children born out of wedlock. Although, I wouldn’t know if he is, anyway. I was just saying what was on my mind.” Joxter replies. He’s very obviously trying to get some sort of answer out of Snufkin and he bluntly adds, “As you should, now.”

“I – Well,” Snufkin shakily says, more anxiety building in his chest, “your son… Your son is not a bastard.” Well, now he can cross meeting his father and swearing (twice) off of his bucket list – if he had one. “He’s… He tries to be a nice boy—and a traveler, just like you. I can tell you for certain that – um, well – I can tell you that he looks up to you a lot.” 

“Get to it, boy. You’ve got something on your mind, and I’m not one to play games about serious matters, despite what you may have heard.” The Joxter sounds annoyed, as if Snufkin is keeping him from more important matters than his own son.

His skin is buzzing now; he shouldn’t be talking about this. He shouldn’t even be here with the Joxter. Heart fluttering, Snufkin wipes away what little tears had formed on his face and mumbles, “It’s just…”

“Yes?” the older mumrik pushes. 

“...I’m – I’m Snusmumriken.” There’s a shakiness to how Snufkin says it, and he forces himself to look away from his spot in the dirt. He wants to see the expression on the Joxter’s face – if only to confirm his anxiety was correct about his father not wanting to know about him.

But he doesn’t have any expression of hate on his face. Instead, The Joxter blinks at him once, his tail slowly swishing back and forth. After a moment, he lazily allows his head to sink back to his arms and closes his eyes again. “I see,” he purrs, “...it’s nice to meet you.”

_It’s… nice to meet me?_ Snufkin thinks. _That’s all?_ “I… I don’t understand.” the young mumrik says not above a whisper. “...Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“What else does one say to someone they’re meeting for the first time?” 

Snufkin is stunned. 

“Son of mine or not, I do not know you. And you do not know me. What else is there to say?” he simply continues. “Although, I am sorry for calling you a bastard. I didn’t mean it as an insult – it’s just a term for children in… well, your circumstance.”

“...So you said.” Snufkin doesn’t know what else to say to the man, and chooses to look back at the spot of dirt he had been using to avoid eye contact earlier.

Silence strikes the both of them, and Snufkin doesn’t try to move away from his spot. Instead he looks at the dirt beneath him and tries to settle his anxieties by piecing together where the conversation had gone. 

The Joxter doesn’t move either – save for that blasted tail of his. Snufkin notices it out of his peripheral vision, the way it sways slowly, slower, and comes to stop. A long time passes before the man finally breaks the silence with, “I suppose I could ask you what sorts of rumours you’ve heard about me, but frankly… You don’t strike me as someone who gives a shit about rumours.”

Snufkin winces at the swear. So… his father is the type to use those kinds of words freely, apparently. Nonetheless, he answers with, “I heard you were a bit of a comedic… and quite fun-loving. Somewhat of an adventurer.” 

“I was, in my youth.” his father sounds exhausted by this claim. 

“And very lazy.” Snufkin adds.

“I’m as lazy as a lump on a log, my dear boy.” he agrees. “That much is true.”

He nods. “And that you were somewhat of a charmer. Moominpappa – I’d heard about you from him – said you and my mother we’re in love. But I’ve also heard another side of that story. Something about you never seeing her again after that night, at the King’s party.”

No response from the Joxter.

“Did… Did you love my mother? The Mymble?”

“...That’s what you’re thinking of at this moment?”

Fiddling with the hem of his coat, Snufkin nods and shyly mumbles, “Yes.”

Finally, the Joxter sits up, crosses his legs and fishes around his pocket for a small black pipe. He lights it after a moment and sighs. “See, boy, love is a complicated thing.” he lazily starts. “I knew her for a short period of time, and I tried to get to know her. I _truly_ did.” 

“So, you… didn’t love her?”

Another long pause between the two. The Joxter takes a drag from his pipe and exhales slowly, the smell of it burning Snufkin’s nose. _It certainly isn’t raspberry leaves in that pipe of his_ , he thinks. Joxter looks away from Snufkin and into the woods, deep in thought for a moment. Then he slowly begins again. 

“It wasn’t as though I didn’t love her – but I can’t quite say I did, either.”

“How philosophical.” Snufkin jests, mostly to himself.

“The truth is, I’m not quite sure what happened between us.” the older mumrik sputters, “I found myself quite attached to her, and apparently… Well, apparently, I outstayed my welcome. I do miss that Mymble very much, though.” 

“Outstayed your welcome?”

“I woke up one morning and she and the children were gone.”

“You’ve met her children then? It sounded as though you hadn’t.”

“I’ve met… let’s see… It’s been so very long. I believe the one I met was named Little My?”

Smirking now, Snufkin retorts, “I hope she didn’t bite you.” 

“...Sharp teeth, on that one.” he mutters, looking down at his slightly frayed tail. “Where was I, now?” 

“She left one day.”

The Joxter takes another, longer drag from his pipe. This time he waits a moment before finally exhaling, smoke flaring out of his lungs as if he were a dragon. Not a single cough comes from him though, and Snufkin can tell he’s been doing this for a long time. 

He looks tired, but continues his story anyway.

“Yes. I’ve heard she’s been to the valley quite a few times since I left,” he says, tapping a finger from his free hand against his knee, “though I felt it only right to let her be.” He gives a short chuckle and Snufkin raises a brow.

“What’s got you laughing, Joxter?” he asks. 

“I suppose if you love someone, it’s best to let them go. So, to answer your question from earlier… yes, I did love that _remarkable_ Mymble. Very much, indeed.” He sounds heartbroken, almost.

Snufkin blinks, looks down and stops fumbling with his coat long enough to get the words out that have been bothering his mind the most. “And had you known about me? What then?”

Then, the Joxter looks directly into his eyes, which had started tearing up again while he spoke. He has a vague expression on his face now. As if he’s lost in thought. It takes him a long time to move at all, except for the slightly unsettling blink of his bright blue eyes, which never leave his son. 

“Had I known about you? I… I’m not sure.” he answers shyly. “It’s best not to dwell on what-ifs, my dear Snusmumriken.” 

“...Snufkin. I – I go by Snufkin.”

“...Snufkin it is.”

“Would you have tried to be there?”

The Joxter shifts uncomfortably and answers, “...I’m not sure.” 

It’s an honest answer at least, though Snufkin isn’t sure if he’s satisfied with it. He feels it was a mistake to have told the Joxter any of this. Without a word, he wipes away the tears stinging at his eyes. He hadn’t cried like this in years, not since he was a baby. His father must think he’s too emotional.

And then the Joxter lets out a breath and mumbles, “I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you’re looking for. I can’t simply answer your what-ifs, and I apologize, Snufkin.” 

Snufkin shrugs and looks up to see that his father is standing now. Sluggishly, the man makes his way over to where his son is sitting, raises a hand and wipes away the left over tears on his face.

He doesn’t quite know how to react; he’s never been so emotional in front of anyone, not even his dearest friend, Moomintroll. The young mumrik doesn’t make a move to get away though, finding some sort of comfort in the sentiment.

When his father’s hand moves away from him, Snufkin brings his hands to his hat, sets it down beside him and musses with his own hair. He still feels overwhelmed and overstimulated, and just needs to get his hair out of his face for a moment. Surely then he will calm down. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” The Joxter states, “I’m sure it must be.” 

“You don’t seem to be bothered.” he replies, still running his hands through his hair.

Suddenly, his father’s hands are on top of his in an attempt to get him to stop fussing. “If we cried over every what-if, we would never be happy.” he whispers back, “The anxiety will pass, my boy. Don’t let it carry you away.”

When Snufkin lowers his hands from his head, he takes a deep breath and exhales a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sensing you’re not used to feeling so much at once.”

He nods. He doesn’t ever talk so much in one sitting, let alone about serious matters such as this. Not once in his life did Snufkin bring up the Joxter of his own free will – he only listened when others talked about him in passing or through stories. Tonight is truly taking a tax on him.

“I understand better than it may come across.” The Joxter’s words come out somewhat shaky as well, but he smiles – somewhat sadly – at his son nonetheless. “If you’re overwhelmed, I could… _Well, I could disappear again_. It’ll be as though I was never here to begin with.”

“No,” Snufkin says rather loudly, “no, I think that would just make things worse.” 

The Joxter sighs again; it’s obvious he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, and that thought comforts Snufkin, oddly enough. He murmurs, “What would you like, then?” 

The young mumrik thinks for a moment and shyly answers, “To get to know you, I suppose. The real you, and not a story told from another perspective... I’ve always wanted that.” 

“...Alright,” his father quietly agrees, “I think… I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> ill probably write more stuff with them eventually; im working on an au right now but its going to take a lot of time.


End file.
